Gun to Her Head
by Just the Wind
Summary: "She is sand, slipping through his fingers, lost before she's even gone. " Rated T for language and content. Oneshot


**Language warning as well as implied but not described suicide. I actually like this one, as perverse as that seems. Don't forget to review.**

The wind is whipping her fiery hair around her, teasing it, playing with it. There is no light, well, there is coming from the sun, but the light in her eyes has so clearly been extinguished. He had loved that light, that attitude she had had. She looks like a hollow shell, the beauty of her surroundings presses upon her but, because of what she is going to do, she looks terribly ugly. Ugly, a word he would have never dreamed of using to describe Rose, even her name was so beautiful. Rose wasn't ugly; Rose couldn't be ugly if she tried, what is in Rose's hand, that was ugly.

He wants to scream, to tell her 'no', to murmur 'I love you' with her pulled close. He can't. He just stands and watches, watches, watches her fall to pieces. He can't summon up the strength, or the courage, or the whatever-the-fuck it'll take for him to walk right up to her, to stop her.

But what is his future without her? He can't let her, he has to make her, make her stop. Stop now, now before it's too late. He feels a flash of what is to come, he doesn't call it his 'inner eye' like a certain professor from a course he has recently dropped, instead, instead he just allows it to fill him. He sees, more like feels, a wave of regret, how he would feel if he didn't stop her.

His legs are moving on their own accord, moving towards her. He's reaching out but she's still standing there, broken. He wants so desperately to fix her, make her smile, hear her laugh again. She is sand, slipping through his fingers, lost before she's even gone.

She is a wingless angel, earthbound after souring amongst the clouds. She is pathetic to see, so beautiful but so trapped here on this lonely earth. He is struck by the desire to make it better, to make her better, but he knows that is what she thinks she is about to do.

His mother always said that running away never solved anything. That's what she is doing, right? Running away, she is trying to escape, escape from everything. Escaping is running away. His fiery angel is just trying to run away, and he hates her for it.

Her body is swaying in rhythm with her heart beats; she is counting down each and every one, finger on the small cold trigger. She is so methodical, not daring to apply pressure until she has sorted each and every thought into its place. God knows, she's not going to end it before her thoughts are organized.

The pressure of not speaking is weighing down on his chest. It's pushing, pushing, pushing down until he wants to scream for relief, but screaming wouldn't do anything.

"Stop," he finds his voice in time to give her a command, "Rose, put it down." He calls to her, the wind carries his words away, away to somewhere so far off, somewhere where they don't matter as much, somewhere where they aren't completely crucial. But she is crying, great hiccupping gasps. This moment, this perfect moment on this windy day is marred by her tears and her intents. He can feel it building inside of him, the frustration, the anger; he briefly considers tackling her to make her stop. But he doesn't. Maybe later he'll regret that, regret not lunging at her to make her stop, stop, STOP. Regret not trying harder to keep her alive.

"You don't get it, do you Scorpius? You don't fucking get it. You think you know everything about me. You think you can fix me. You fucking think I need to be fixed. Maybe, maybe I do but that doesn't matter. It doesn't, because you should have thought of that so much earlier. You have fucking killed me. You have done this. And one day, one day when I'm cold and dead, you are going to try to blame it on me. You are going to say that you tried and that in the end it was my choice and my fault. You are going to make up so many excuses just so you can make yourself feel better because lord knows god damn Scorpius on his high and mighty throne can't stand guilt. I don't fucking want to hear it. You get it? I don't want to listen to you make up excuses about how screwed up my mind is. I don't want to hear that I can get better because I'm fucking tired of getting better. Don't you see? I'm so fucking tired of being told that I shouldn't feel how I do," She stops to breathe, "I'm so, so, so tired of being told that it's not my fault. It is. Don't you see, Scorp? It's all my fault." And she is crying, sobbing into the wind. Her eyes look torn and desperate and she sinks down, down, down to the ground. The lake is now puddling at her feet but she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything anymore.

"Rose," he whispers. Inside it's killing him, killing him to see her like this. Rose, the methodical, beautiful, bookworm; Rose, the girl who lit up when confronted with a problem; Rose, the girl he kissed in secluded broom closets during stolen moments.

"Scorpius just shut up. Shut up, okay? I don't want to hear it; I don't want you to tell me that you'll make it all better because you can't. I really thought you were different, thought you'd let me be the way I want to be. But you're not. You're just like all of them. You want to stop me just so you can feel like some bloody hero. You're not a hero and I don't give a shit about how much you try to act otherwise. You're an idiot. An idiot for coming here, for thinking that there is so much you can do for me. For thinking you can make me heal. I can't heal anymore; I'm scarred and broken, and bruised, and tired of living. I'm so fucking tired of life." She squeezes her eyes shut, "I want it to be over." Her voice is soft, heartbreakingly delicate. Rose, the tough badass girl sounds more fragile than the thin silk of a spider's web.

He wants to hold her, to whisper all of the things she's told him not to say. He wants to reassure her, to calm her down enough to keep her alive for just a little longer. Instead, instead he simply says, "I love you, Rose." But they both know that isn't enough. So, he doesn't stop her. He stands just a little out of reach as she pulls the gun to her head, takes a steadying breath, and pulls the trigger. He loved her and it wasn't enough.


End file.
